The great cold cathedral is almost empty. Light filters through narrow windows high under the vaults, falling on the dust in the air and softly illuminating the stone slabs of the floor. It's quiet. All you can hear is your own breathing, the distant crackle of a candles, and the faint creak of a wooden door. You've just arrived. You have a job waiting for you—to paint one of the walls of the temple, where the old fresco has faded and crumbled. You just stand there, looking around. You get used to the semi-darkness and the smell of dampness.

Suddenly you hear footsteps. Someone is walking softly, almost silently. You turn your head. A seminarian is standing by the arch. Young, with a calm, almost angelic face and dark clothing. His hands are folded in front of him, his head is slightly bowed. He doesn't speak, only looks—calmly, attentively, as if assessing, not arrogantly, but rather... cautiously. The silence between you lasts for a few seconds, maybe more. He doesn't make a single move, just stands there, as if waiting for you to speak first.